


Second star to the right

by pushkin666



Series: Leaves of Red [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Fucked up Pete Wentz, M/M, Psychological issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-07
Updated: 2014-11-07
Packaged: 2018-02-24 11:04:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2579273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/pseuds/pushkin666
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But he wore the bruises like a trophy, the marks decorating his body and enticing men to him, as much as the eyeliner and lip gloss that he used. They were as much a part of him as the tattoos that he’d started to collect as soon as he could afford them, and if he used his mouth to pay for some of the cost of the tattoos it wasn’t hurting anybody.</p><p>This forms part of the Leaves of Red verse, and gives more of Pete's background.  The title is of course from JM Barrie's Peter Pan - “Second star to the right and straight on 'til morning.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second star to the right

As a child Pete’s parents jokingly, and lovingly, called him Peter Pan. The boy that never grew up. 

He’d liked the name, until they died in a car crash, their bodies crushed beyond recognition, and he’d become even more like the Peter Pan in the stories. Leader of the Lost Boys. 

Pete became lost, unable to deal with their death and the care system that he’d been thrown into. A care system that did anything but care. By the time he left, he was already a user of medication, drugs given to him in the homes to _calm him down!_ Or at least that’s what they’d said. Pete hadn’t really cared. Too full of anger and sorrow to even bother to try and fit into the mould required of any child taken into the system.

He’d gone his own way, even learning to trade sex in the homes, to stop the beatings and to get better food, and as he’d gotten older to get alcohol. So when it came time for him leave, he left with an unenviable talent for sucking cock and a rage in his heart that felt at times like a black hole, pulling in anything that came too close. He felt like a dead star collapsing in on itself, a dead star that would one day turn supernova. 

To prove everybody wrong he didn’t end up on his knees in a back alley for a way of living. Oh he’d done that a few times but only when he was really desperate. Instead, Pete managed to find a job stacking shelves in a small independent mom and pop store. It paid enough for him to rent a basement room in a house that was a couple of steps up from a squat. Pete didn’t particularly care about his surrounds though. The homes had been comfortable but he’d hated them. Had never been able to have any space that was just his. The room, damp and cold as it was at times, was his. His space and nobody else’s. He could lock the door and shut the world out.

As far as he was concerned he’d made it out of the system, he had money in his pocket and if he was a lost boy then there were plenty more out there like him, in the dark metropolis. Somewhere there in the Never Never Land of the city were lost boys waiting to be found. Pete had always loved music and a second hand portable CD player was one of the first things he’d bought in his second month’s pay cheque.

Instead of using alcohol and meds to quieten the black rage and sorrow swirling and twisting inside Pete chose to use dancing, sex and violence instead. He’d learnt in the hardest way possible that he enjoyed pain during sex. Found that he liked to hurt, and to be hurt, and if it was impossible to hide the bruises in the morning what did he care? Nor was there anybody else to care for him although his employer had raised her eyes on a number of occasions before handing over a tub of arnica cream “to help with the bruising.”

But he wore the bruises like a trophy, the marks decorating his body and enticing men to him, as much as the eyeliner and lip gloss that he used. They were as much a part of him as the tattoos that he’d started to collect as soon as he could afford them, and if he used his mouth to pay for some of the cost of the tattoos it wasn’t hurting anybody.

The rage though never really lessened, although Pete found that it was possible to mute it in the pleasure of sex, but more and more he found that the only way to really quieten it was in the red haze of pain, of the feel of hands pressing down; breaking and bruising, and eventually the bright glint of steel – the red blotting out the black.

It was a different type of desire, on of deeply buried lusts and needs, of dark fantasies finally coming to life.

But even that wasn’t enough and on his own he didn’t know what else to do, how to take it further.

And then one day he met Patrick.


End file.
